


Pursuit and the Art of Saying 'No'

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Being pursued can be good or bad, depending on the intent of the pursuer and the inclinations of the one being pursued.  But what do you do when the pursuer just doesn't want to take 'No' for an answer?  Maybe you just need someone who speaks their language.





	Pursuit and the Art of Saying 'No'

**Author's Note:**

> I have to give credit to the movie version of 'The A-Team', which I was watching the other night. I'm pretty sure it was responsible for at least part of this story!

Craig Garrison had had more than enough of shadows and darkness in his life, wanted all that behind him, especially now that he had experienced life with considerably less of that commodity. Now, with a family, a business, his guys and his sister a vital part of all that, he was right where he wanted to be. Problem was, the shadows and darkness kept reaching out to him, starting with Major Johns a few months ago. Started with, but didn't end with him. What will it take for them to finally understand, or at least accept that 'No means No'? Perhaps someone who has quite a bit of experience in just that thing. Someone who speaks a common language.

Major Johns had come making offers, but had, for some reason, decided not to pursue the proposed recruitment of Craig Garrison, along with Actor, for his supposedly anonymous three-letter-named organization. In fact, that proposed recruitment (along with a few other incidents) led to Johns pursuing a totally different career. 

Now, in rapid succession, came three others, one from what Garrison called a 'black ops' organization, and two more from a couple of those three-letter-named organizations. Oh, let's stop being coy; it's annoying enough when they do it! One man was from the CIA, another from MI6. Different, they were, in their manners, in their approaches, but all three interested in the same thing, obtaining the services of the former lieutenant.

The fact that Garrison wasn't interested? That he gave them each a very firm 'No'? All three thought he could be swayed, by one means or another. At least two of the three, perhaps all three, thought his interest or lack thereof was really irrelevant.

They were mistaken. 

 

*Black Dog Enterprises, Dallas, Texas:

The caller's voice was chilly in tone, though very formal, of course. To the Assistant to the Director of that supposedly anonymous 'black ops' group, the telephone call and the caller's rather disturbing request of "I wish to speak with Mr. Drake, if you please," was most unexpected. Well, Drake wasn't a name any outsider should be tossing around, and that number was one known only to a very, very few. His rather abrupt response, "you must have the wrong number. What did you want?" got only a weary sigh and an equally weary, "if we are going to play games, fine. Just tell Drake that Wyvern's Nest is on the line and has a bone to pick with him. I'll wait, Morgan. Briefly." If that tone had been weary, it had also been quite confident of a response, and so it was.

Mackenzie Drake looked up with annoyance at his assistant poking his head in through the door. 

"Yes, sir, I know you didn't want to be interrupted, but it seems we have 'Wyvern's Nest' on the line and it appears they are displeased, say they have a bone to pick with you." Morgan's face was highly apprehensive; he might not know everything about the caller, but enough for that, anyway. That the caller knew HIS name, recognized his voice was more than a little disturbing.

Drake saw his reasonably peaceful, even light, morning - organizing one small government overthrow, two relatively uncomplicated assassinations, the delivery of a few bribes, mostly cash, American dollars, but gold in one case, raw uncut diamonds in another, to influence various politicians in various countries - all go right to hell. {"So much for an early lunch!"} 

He'd heard from the group called Wyvern's Nest only twice since he'd taken charge of Black Dog Enterprises, after the unfortunate, most untimely demise of his predecessor, and neither had resulted in particularly pleasant memories. He doubted this would be an exception.

He remembered being briefed by his boss, Callen Jones, about the group, so alike to the Dogs, but so very different at the same time. Odd, they were sort of in the same line of work, sort of, anyway. They could be hired, for money. Their operatives had much the same talents as the Black Dogs. They were rarely in competition for the same jobs, though, because of their decidedly odd, even archaic, some might say bizarre notions of appropriate conduct and honor and right and wrong. Drake thought it had to be very inconvenient being tied down with all that. Still, their people were known to be damned good.

In fact, he'd once asked Jones why they didn't recruit from Wyvern's Nest if their people were so damned good. Jones had snorted, "because it doesn't work. We've tried, other organizations have tried. It doesn't work and it just gets them pissed off. Believe me, pissed off is NOT what you want with this group!"

He had thought Jones had been a real pussy to let someone push him around like that. 

Then, after Jones was gone, Drake had his own introduction, and he decided maybe he'd leaped to the wrong conclusion. Oh, they didn't SCARE him, exactly, the three representatives of Wyvern's Nest, (at least not before the actual meeting), but then, he was a bonafide sociopath and fear hadn't been something he'd really ever experienced, any more than empathy, love, or several other of the more cumbersome emotions others seemed to get bogged down with. And when it came down to it, 'scare' wasn't the most appropriate word anyway. He'd never figured out what the right word really should be.

Well, he still might not know what empathy or love or those other things felt like, but he now DID have a pretty good idea of what fear was like, at least a glimmer. No, he never discussed what happened, either in that first meeting, just an introduction really, and the second meeting, when there had been a jurisdictional issue to be resolved. 

Even the second meeting had gone reasonably well, considering. Korman's remains had been offered in four separate duffle bags, all contents neatly wrapped in plastic to avoid embarrassing stains on the carpet, and in the privacy of his office he'd been offered an explanation that he'd decided, after some quick thinking, was really quite acceptable. Perfectly understandable, in fact. Probably would have done the same thing in their place. No, not really a problem, not at all. Simple meeting of the minds between . . . Well, anyway. They'd politely offered an explanation about Korman overstepping certain boundaries, (an explanation, certainly not an apology), they'd kindly overlooked the fact that he'd pissed his pants when that one representative had . . . Well, he wasn't going to think about what that one representative had done, no, he simply refused to go there!

Of course, now that he was in charge, he knew they were known by other names, sometimes the Shantai, sometimes Clan O'Donnell, but he still thought of them as Wyvern's Nest; it just seemed to fit, once he found a picture of a wyvern. Yes, except for the number of heads, it was a pretty good match.

"Alright, put them through, Morgan. And stand by; I might need you."

He thought about pouring out a double shot from that bottle in his desk, but decided to wait til after; he would probably need all his wits about him for this conversation. He hoped it would be a short one.

It was, quite brief in fact.

"My DEAR Mr. Drake. How ARE you??! Are you doing well? Sleeping well, appetite holding strong?" The effusive voice was one he recognized from the prior meetings, and he felt a shudder go through his body. Yes, SHE was the one.

"Um, yes, doing quite well, can't complain," he offered cautiously.

"Good, good! It's true what dear Mr. Burroughs says, you know, when you've got your health, you've got everything; when you do not have your health, nothing else matters at all." 

There was an odd little tittering of a laugh coming through the receiver, and he looked at the phone like he would have a rattlesnake coiled around his hand at that very unsettling sound.

"Oh, dear me, sorry, I don't think Augusten Burroughs said that quite YET. Well, he wouldn't have, would he, since he hasn't been born yet, but he will, someday, I'm quite sure of it. I DO get things confused sometimes, yesterday, today, tomorrow; this century, last century, next. So easy to do, you know." 

That voice was unrelentingly cheerful, and that just made this whole conversation that much worse, in Drake's opinion. He was pretty sure a strong streak of insanity ran through Wyvern's Nest, and when you add that to all the rest, well . . . 

There was perhaps two minutes of chit-chat, and then the caller, "well, just wanted to call and check on you. No, there WAS something else, now what was it? What was it?? Think, think, it was right on the tip of my tongue. Ah yes, now I remember! You are attempting to recruit a former American military officer, a Craig Garrison. I DO wish you would stop; that could get rather touchy, you know. For one, he's simply not interested, and two, well, let's just say that Wyvern's Nest finds the idea highly offensive, especially with the tactics your operative is using. We would SO hate to have to refer the matter on to Viper's Nest. They are Family, true, but they can be so irrational at times, you know; tend to overreact on occasion. Or perhaps you don't. Well, probably better off that way, my dear Mr. Drake. Wouldn't want to disturb those sound nights of sleep. There are times they make even ME quite uneasy, I must admit. Do you think you might do something about my dilemma, DEAR Mr. Drake?"

"If you could wait, just one moment, I'll check on that situation." He yelled for Morgan, who stuck his head in the door.

"Have we approached a Craig Garrison to come to work for us? Hurry, I have to know who, where, when, everything, NOW!" 

Recruitment was something Drake rarely became involved in, left it to one of his subordinates.

It took a bare two minutes to pull the file and scan it. Drake suppressed a groan. Mitchell, of course, who had the tact of a warthog with the gout, and the disposition and self-control to match. He clicked the button to reconnect him with the voice, one which was now humming some odd melody, one with a rather disturbing cadence. There was something not quite, well, right, about that voice. He rushed ahead, trying to ignore that queaziness he felt trying to envelop him. He tried to put an upbeat tone in his voice as he responded.

"Yes, I just pulled the file. Well, if Mr. Garrison isn't interested in employment with us, far be it from us to pressure him. I'll make sure our recruiters don't approach him again. No, no, my pleasure. We wouldn't want people working for us when they wouldn't be happy in our organization. I'll take care of it right away. Yes, personally, of course. You have my guarantee on that."

"Ah, delightful. Now you take care of yourself, Mr. Drake. It's such an uncertain world these days. Of course, it really always has been, I suppose; even dear Genghis made mention of that, you know. I'm sure Mr. Jones found it so, poor soul. At least his end was peaceful, if rather unexpected; that was quite kind of you, you know. I was quite impressed by your thoughtfulness in that regard."

Mackenzie Drake put down the phone very carefully, pulled open his desk drawer and took out the bottle of whiskey and a glass. He'd only allowed himself one quick shot, taken in one swift gulp, before he turned to Morgan and issued the instructions. 

"Contact Mitchell; he's to discontinue any contact with Craig Garrison. Make sure he understands, doesn't try and pull any stupid stunt like he did in Nairobi. Deciding to kill Mattea for declining our offer of employment was perhaps understandable, but it will NOT be the case with Garrison, do you understand??! Garrison is to be left strictly alone! Now, tomorrow, forever!! Garrison, anyone connected to Garrison, anyone Garrison has ever so much as talked to or tipped his hat to in the street!" 

{"Viper's Nest??!! And they make Wyvern's Nest UNEASY???!!! Shit!!!"}

Morgan watched as his superior poured another glass of the whiskey and drained it, then reach for the bottle once again. "Yes, sir. Of course."

He didn't know everything about Wyvern's Nest, probably wouldn't til HE, like Drake, decided to climb the ladder over the body of his superior and had access to the most secure files. But if the group scared THIS man shitless, Drake being perhaps the coldest bastard Morgan had ever encountered, the less contact the better, that much was obvious. 

 

*CIA Headquarters, 2430 East Street, NW, Washington, DC:

The message was brief, just an invitation to 'Archie' to have a drink at the Army Navy Club. There was no way to respond, no phone number or anything else, and he'd thought to ignore it, then took another look at the signature, the tiny insignia along side, and felt his skin crawl. He remembered that name, the insignia, from the war; they were not particularly pleasant memories, any of them, though he'd not realized there was a connection between the name and the group the insignia represented, not til now. Once he'd remembered, he put any thought of just not going right out of his mind; no good could come of that. It would have been bad enough in his former position; now, well, he just wished that invitation had not arrived, that's all. He had more than enough headaches as it was.

He was a military man, served in the Intelligence area a goodly part of the time, was good at what he did, and would have preferred to be left to do the job he'd been trained for. He didn't really like the job he'd been called on to do, especially with the lack of understanding from above about what was truly needed, but when the President of the United States says jump, you pretty much ask how high, even if you were a Rear Admiral. 

Oh, well, he had a feeling he wouldn't be in the position for long. He'd not been given the resources to do the job right, (a crystal ball would have been helpful, or maybe a ouija board), and the expectations were ridiculously high in his estimation. It was only a matter of time before he and the organization he'd been slated to run would fail at pulling information out of thin air and he'd hopefully be back at doing something he felt more comfortable doing. Hopefully not too many lives would be lost before then.

Some of the people working in the organization were ones he'd have not wanted at his side, even more not at his back, during the past action, and a remarkable number of them insisted on calling themselves 'Lynch', for some bizarre reason. They not only wore the same name, but actually attempted to dress, and talk and behave the same. They seemed to think it was 'right on the beam', if he had the terminology correct. HE thought it made them look and sound like a mass science fiction experiment, or perhaps something out of that scene in 'Babes in Toyland' with the endless reproduction of the toy soldiers. That image made him snort with disgust, but with a strong hint of amusement built in, since he viewed many of them as just that, 'toy soldiers'.

The Army Navy Club was a familiar haunt, though he was more accustomed to the main dining room, not the smaller pub style room he was directed to. The sight of the two people waiting for him brought all those memories back, but he refrained from the deep sigh he really wanted to give.

"Major, Miss O'Donnell. It's been some time," he offered politely as he took a seat.

"Admiral, always a pleasure. I was pleasantly surprised to see they seem to have an acceptable bar offering here, but I arranged for a bottle of Bushmills to be smuggled in, just in case. If I remember, you had a particular liking for that. And it's Mr. now, not Major; I'm no longer with the military," the lantern-jawed man with the silver-grey eyes told him, a polite smile on his face, a pleasant look in his eyes, not a particularly believable look, of course, but a good attempt, at least..

The woman had an equally pleasant expression on her face, if rather detached, and her eyes were slightly unfocused, making her look as if she was hardly paying attention, was more woolgathering than anything else. 'Archie' knew that was one of the most misleading looks possible, knew better than to be deceived by it. He remembered her wearing a very similar expression while . . . Well, he preferred not to even think about that episode.

He noticed neither were studying the menus; understandable of course. While Richards might conceivably have forgotten his prior experiences, though that was doubtful, the woman was unlikely to trust any food prepared in this building. {"Probably why they brought in their own bottle. Quite sensible, of course."}. That was one of the things he rather disliked about the organization he'd found himself, so reluctantly, involved with, their liking, even rather romantic attachment for the drugs and poisons and other little chemical surprises. It all seemed rather distasteful to him.

"So, I assume there is a reason for this invitation," 'Archie' asked, taking the bull by the horns.

The woman took a sip at her glass; the Admiral was amused to see that they had not only brought in the bottle, but three glassses as well; at least he assumed the Army Navy Club had not started using whiskey glasses with a black wolf's head on them. Untrusting sort, though they would be, of course. If he remembered right, they both had more than enough reason to be distrustful. She, in particular, didn't have a lot of patience, either; would probably get to the point rather quickly, and she did.

"You have an Agent Lynch. Actually, you seem to have an untold number of Agent Lynch's, and honestly, doesn't that get both rather confusing and rather tiresome?? I would certainly find it so! But the one I am referring to has been throwing his weight around, making rather a nuisance of himself, in England. I realize the organization is but newly under your command, but I believe we had a discussion once, about the concept of consent, that 'No really means No'."

He shuddered, remembering the circumstances of that discussion.

"Your Agent Lynch doesn't quite seem to grasp that concept. He has been making approaches to one Craig Garrison, former American military officer, and although Mr. Garrison is adamant in his 'No's', your Agent Lynch is simply not getting the message." She sipped at the glass, shaking her head sorrowfully at the denseness of some people, watching the current head of the CIA process that, watched that cautious frown form, then relented with a small laugh.

"No, he's not intent on seduction, but on recruitment. But the concept is quite the same, you know. Mr. Garrison has no interest in Agent Lynch and his offer, has no interest in becoming involved with your agency. He is finding it rather annoying, to be quite honest, to have his very firm 'No' ignored, brushed aside as if he has no choice in the matter. He is finding it even more annoying to find pressure being applied, in the form of threats against his Family and Friends, his business. To be even more honest, WE are finding it rather annoying. I am finding it extremely annoying, in fact, on a personal as well as professional level. In fact, I can't remember when I've been MORE annoyed recently." 

'Archie' watched with some trepidation those amber eyes, the way they seemed to shift and twist and take on a quite different shape, start to faintly glow in the dim light of the room. He remembered her eyes; sometimes they appeared in his nightmares, those eyes. The fact that she was absently twisting the table ware into a reasonable fascimile of a flower didn't make him any more comfortable, especially when she used one broad claw, uh, fingernail, to pierce the metal of one knife to allow another to slide through the gap. She held up the newly constructed metal tulip, complete with arching leaves, handing it over to 'Archie' with a sweet smile. "A memento."

Kevin Richards shot her a reproving glance, then an apologetic one over to their guest. "She never has mastered the art of subtlety, I'm afraid, Admiral. Actually, I'm never sure she or any other of her Family truly understand what the term means. I've tried a dictionary, but it doesn't seem to help."

'Archie' cleared his throat uneasily. "Yes, I seem to remember that. But there are times when clarity is more useful than subtlety," watching the wicked amusement in that grin crossing the redhead's face. 

"Agent Lynch, you say, England. Well, I'll see if I can't redirect the agent's activities to someone more favorably inclined to join us. I believe Mr. Garrison will not be bothered by him again."

That smile was remarkably disturbing. "Well, I do hope so. But if YOU can't, perhaps I can. Twenty-four hours, shall we say? And your location would be an appropriate one for any deliveries of sundries and such??" 

The Admiral shuddered. {"Sundries and such. I don't even want to imagine what she might mean by that! Yes, her eyes are very oddly shaped now, and I do believe they are actually glowing, and there's something definitely wrong with her teeth, as well! Should her canines really be that long and sharp and pointed??!"}

The farewells were congenial, polite, and the Admiral made his way back to his office, the other two to the car waiting for them.

Kevin Richards closed his eyes, sighed and shook his head despairingly, "subtle, very subtle, my dear."

"Well, as you know, that never WAS my strong point," Ciena admitted with a wry shrug, leaning in for a kiss. She pouted when Kevin studied her very closely first before indulging her, "just wanted to be sure you had everything retracted first, Ciena. And NO, I'm not talking about Adjar!" 

Ciena's look of reproof melted into giggles as Richards overcame his mock display of reluctance and pulled her into a deep embrace. 

"How do you think Coura is doing, with 'Teddybear'. Lord, the names those wags at HQ could come up with! I mean, 'Teddybear' for HIM was bad enough, but 'KITTEN'? For Coura??! It totally defies the imagination!" Richards exclaimed, and Ciena had to agree. Her sister, her 'co-wife', if you really needed to try and diagram their domestic affairs, was about the furthest thing from a sweet bloody kitten as anything she'd ever seen!

Somehow, no matter how improbably, the man once known as Archie (at least to a select few) had found it all rather refreshing, that little episode, considering all the multi-layers of intrigue he'd been dealing with lately. Directness did have its place in things. He'd be seeing to all that as soon as he got back to the office; whether his successors would abide by his recommendations in the matter of Craig Garrison, he did not know. He did hope so; it could get expensive having to replace all those 'Lynch' agents, unless there really was a machine in the basement capable of pumping them out, one after the other after the other. He'd often wondered about that.

 

*MI6, Century House, Lambeth:

It was his private line ringing, and that was rarely a good thing considering the few people who had access - the Prime Minister, the Queen, the Head of Parliment, the Head of Interpol, a very, very few others. Sighing, setting down his tea cup, he reached for it and found his instincts had been right, though there was no way he could have anticipated this call.

"Teddybear! How ARE you! It's been absolutely forever and I have been absolutely desolate without hearing your dulcet tones!" 

The man in the highbacked leather chair frowned in perplexity, shook his head, and started to ask the logical question of 'who IS this? How did you get this number?', when the penny dropped, right along with his jaw. NO ONE called him Teddybear, NO ONE! Well, except for one totally unrepentent cheeky little minx he hadn't seen in at least three, maybe four years.

"Kitten?" he exclaimed in astonishment. No, that was NOT a term of endearment, any more than her 'Teddybear' had been. Code names could be so embarrassing sometimes, especially when the one assigning those names had a perverted sense of humor.

"Yes, Kitten. Listen, darling, can we meet? Have a chat? There's something ever so annoying going on, and it looks to be headed for something quite unpleasant, well, for you and your group, you know. Merely an annoyance for US, of course, involving some mopping and dusting, taking out the trash, you know, clean up work, but probably better if we can just avoid all that if possible. You have a slender enough work force as it is, from my understanding. IF you have the time, of course; I'd not want to interrupt anything of earth-shattering importance, of course."

Yes, he remembered 'Kitten', and easily (and correctly) interpreted that whole monologe as "look, sweet cheeks, it's all going to hit the fan if you don't get your dumb ass in gear, so get with the freaking program, okay??!" Actually, he remembered her delivering just that speech, accompanied by a highly exasperated look, and she'd been right on the mark, much to his embarrassement.

{"Ah, Kitten. I've missed you. Rather like I miss having a ticking bomb under my chair, or a live hand grenade sitting on my desk, with the pin laying on the other side of the room."}

Soon he was seated at a small cafe sipping a Ricard Pastis, watching her enjoy a triple shot of bourbon, the bottle sitting right in the middle of the table, the waiter pretending very hard not to see the incongruous sight. This was a very upscale cafe; they did NOT leave a bottle sitting on the table!

"I wouldn't have thought they would serve that here, certainly not in the bottle, and I've never even heard of that brand, you know."

"They don't, serve it here, I mean; I brought it with me. A specialty product, the Family has an interest in the distillery. Would you like a sample?"

He tried it, cautiously, and had to admit it was easily the best, certainly the most powerful bourbon he'd ever tasted, though he was not a huge fan generally. He tried to ignore the sweat popping out on his forehead as he finished the small glass, one scant shot to the three very generous ones she was enjoying.

"Quite exceptional. Is it available commercially?" he'd managed to ask politely. {"Hopefully not, probably kill off half the population within the year! Can your heart and brain both actually function at the same time after drinking that??!"} knowing his own two organs were struggling masterfully to do so.

"No, but I can arrange for a bottle to be sent to you, if you like," she offered agreeably. 

He accepted with a gracious smile and nod. {"Perhaps the hand grenade would be quicker? No, possibly not!"}

She'd given him a little time to recover from the bourbon, thankfully, before she'd started talking about old times, this and that and so on.

It was casual chit chat, him finally (after he could actually focus again), looking at her with some curiousity. "What are you doing these days?" He didn't bother to ask if she wanted a job; he knew better; at least he bloody well hoped so! Just as well. Yes, she would be highly valuable, and if she joined MI6, he would have to retire, immediately. His nerves just wouldn't stand the strain.

"Oh, this and that, keeping busy as always. Was in the general area, so the Family asked I give you a jingle and talk over that little matter I mentioned."

Well, he was still waiting to hear about that little matter, and wasn't so sure a sidewalk cafe was the best place to discuss it, but it seemed straightforward enough. And she HAD been reasonably discreet, at least for her; anyway, he'd gotten the message, loud and clear.

Making his way back to the office, he thought over that little enterprise they'd shared the pleasure of disrupting, and found a reluctantly fond smile coming to his face. 'Kitten' was a lot of things, many of them highly disturbing, to his mind, but he'd always found her to be entertaining. What that said about himself, he preferred not to linger over too carefully.

Now, back at his desk, he picked up the phone. "Ah, Matthews. Please be so good as to locate whoever is being so energetic in trying to recruit a Mr. Craig Garrison, down Brandonshire way, will you? We really do have to put a stop to that. Likely to get ever so unpleasant if it persists, you see. Was just tipped the wink by an old acquaintance, just for old times' sake; rather lucky in that. Could have gotten ever so nasty. Just be a good chap and see the word gets out, all levels, Mr. Garrison is to be left alone, at least as far as recruiting is concerned. I believe it would behoove us all for him to remain independent, healthy and happy in pursuing his own affairs. Yes, thank you ever so."

He lowered the telephone to its base, licking his lips, still tasting that rather remarkable drink he'd be given. {"I do hope she remembers about the bourbon; quite pleasurable, sweet, smooth, though I really don't know how they get it quite that strong. Had to be 150 proof, easily! Perhaps a teaspoon at a time?"}

 

*Brandonshire, England - The Cottages:

"Well, it's been a week since any of them showed their faces in the village. I imagine we've seen the last of them, Craig. If not, if any of you spots anything, speak up, and it will be dealt with." There was an uncommonly grim look in Meghada's eyes, and everyone in the room had to wonder just what had been going on. Her mood was a little unstable recently, what with the baby on the way and all, but she certainly hadn't been any too pleased with the sudden concentrated attention in Garrison, especially since that attention had Goniff on edge as well. 

"Well, I certainly hope it's finished. The one from MI6 was nice and polite, if overly persistent, but that Lynch fellow was really looking to get his head handed to him, and the first one? I really was almost to the point of siccing you on him, Meghada," Craig Garrison admitted, a wry look in his green eyes.

Somehow the slightly amused smile that came to her face gave him an uneasy feeling. {"Hell, just like old times!"} Made him wonder how much she had to do with the sudden LACK of attention in one Craig Garrison. No, suddenly he didn't wonder in the least, and found that didn't disturb nearly as much as it once would have. In fact . . .

"Anytime, Craig, anytime," she purred, that grim look turning into something quite different. No less dangerous, mind you, but different.

"Ruddy 'ell, 'Gaida! Any notion of w'at it does to me w'en you look like that??! W'en you go making that noise in the back of your throat??!" Goniff moaned, shifting in his seat uneasily.

A slow sly smile, "well, yes, laddie, I might just have some idea," and the whole crew laughed. It was more than obvious what it did to their pickpocket, and though no one was going to mention it, it obviously did the same to Craig Garrison. Well, whether it was Meghada's smile, or the purr, or that look on Goniff's face, that was debatable, but the reaction was almost identical. 

And the reaction from Casino was inevitable, enough they were all waiting for it. 

"Sheesh, you guys!!!"


End file.
